


Certain Liberties

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: A PWP that has turned into a character study, Breasts, F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Oops, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Every once in a while, even Charkov's thoughts go astray. That it happens in the Council of Ministers, however, is something new.- or: a glimpse into the thoughts of Viktor Charkov, Deputy Chairman of the KGB, as he meets Ulana Khomyuk for the first time.





	Certain Liberties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cocomoraine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocomoraine/gifts).



> **Deputy Chairman Jerk-Off, I hope you'll enjoy** ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> It's about time that Charkov lives up to his name ...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who contributed to this story, one way or another <3

*

Although the woman’s clothes are high-collared enough they hide little. Fabric stretches over the curves of her breasts, especially when she stands up to speak, her dark curls falling across her shoulders. Politeness dictates to look at the one who speaks, so it’s only good manners not to avert the eyes. Charkov listens to her words even if he doesn’t appreciate the fact that she is speaking at all. 

_Scientists, with their quixotic curiosity._ He’ll deal with that impertinence of her at one point, of that, he has little doubt; just as the case of Legasov has immediately become his own. Now, with his hands forced to idleness, he simply allows his mind certain liberties, a rare occurrence indeed.

When she sits down, his eyes still linger, naturally less obvious now that his attention should be directed to something else. Such is the gift of life-long training: nothing about his demeanor would ever betray his thoughts and intentions. Some may call it a curse, he calls it a blessing.

There are many things about Ulana Khomyuk of which Charkov wonders in the privacy of his mind when Boris Shcherbina has the word again, not a single one appropriate to be noticed by any member of the Council of Ministers. 

Without blinking, he finds himself imagining to slip his hands below the dress she wears, feeling the weight of her breasts in his hand and he’s content for a while. Then, his thoughts wander, and he imagines how his lips would feel against her nipples; if she moans as he’s licking and sucking them until her head dips back. 

The movement he makes in his chair to ease the growing discomfort in his trousers is discreet enough not to raise any unwelcomed attention. He hasn’t completed the journey of his mind, after all. Who knows – when, or if he’ll ever see her again, and that’s where a certain conflict arises in Charkov’s mind. Sanity bids him wish to never see her, them again; the entire affair is more than a simple nuisance – it’s a threat and tension is unlikely to abate. But then there’s his own selfish desire, that part of him that rarely enough raises its voice, whispering to see her again.

Upon an entirely ridiculous suggestion by Shcherbina, he quirks his eyebrows in shocked surprise, wondering when General Secretary Gorbachev will finally put an immediate end to this madness. As it is, he does not and to Charkov, that is a madness in itself. 

Amid the arising discussion, he sits back in his chair since there’s exactly nothing he wishes to contribute to that nonsense. Discussions – the word, the irony of it irks Charkov; discussion between men not knowing their place, lesser men, that is. In his world, there are no idiotic discussions held; it is decisions – and only that.

A shake of his head indicates his disapproval of the entire affair. Then, he looks down on the papers in front of him pretending to read. Not that anyone would notice in their heated state of mind, least alone her. The fact that she’s angry isn’t lost on him, and the way she glares goes right to his cock. A certain kind of temperament has never been unwelcomed in Charkov’s fantasies. 

For a while he’s content to press his face against her breasts, listing to her heartbeat speeding up when his lips trail along the pulsing vein of her throat; but then, even that doesn’t quite satisfy him anymore.

 _Almost thirty years ago._ And yet, his memory is clear as if it had happened yesterday. This time, the movement he makes in his chair isn’t overly discreet. How should it be, when in his imagination she lies on her back in his bed and he straddles her, his wet cock resting between her cleavage. There’s nothing subtle about her; not in the way she presses her breast together around his erection, urging him to move; not in the way she lifts her head a little to assist with her mouth. It’s all encouragement he needs to move, thrusting as if he’s actually fucking her.

A cough forces his attention back to the present. “Deputy Chairman Charkov,” Gorbachev announces. “May you feel inclined to share your opinion on this matter?”

Charkov smooth his damp hands over his thighs, then nods. “Of course. It’s a matter of state after all … ” he begins, his voice entirely unaffected by his thoughts. All eyes are directed at him, yet it’s only her gaze upon him he pays any attention to as he falls into his monologue.

*

Moscow’s sky is a bleak grey the following morning, the color not much different than the suit he wears. Charkov, sitting at his pedantically arranged desk, barely looks up from his paperwork as he speaks. “Comrade Lyadov. We require a certain kind of information.” The KGB requires said information, obviously – not he. “Her name is Ulana Khomyuk, born in Minsk, aged forty-five. Scientist, working at the Belarusian Institute for Nuclear Energy,” he tells him, and adds, although it goes without saying. “The file is to be delivered to my hands only, as little delay as possible.”

“Of course.” The other man nods and hurries out of Charkov’s office.

It’s almost noon, and much of today’s work he has already accomplished. The benefit that comes with an early start. 5 am, never later than that. For a moment, Charkov allows his thoughts to go astray, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap. _Aged forty-five._ A bit old for his tastes, but then she doesn’t look like it at all. Indeed he had been surprised when he saw her date of birth.

 _Born in September._ Just like him, he thinks, and then he smiles.

Age – it’s all hollow words, nothing that truly matters. What truly matters are those beautiful curves of her. He has never cared much for thin, flat women – if they are women grown at all; it is usually girls barely of age who are drawn towards men of power like bees around a honey pot. What a befitting comparison. He has seen them swarming through the night on too many events to count, flying from guest to guest until they kept sticking at one. _Oh_ , he knows those ever-smiling girls, but more importantly, he knows the men prone to fall for them. Not that it’s something usually worth bothering with, not quite. Yet sometimes, such information is very valuable. Just imagine the scandal if one of the girls wasn’t of age …

Charkov exhales, then smiles. No, these ridiculous girls aren’t for him. He desires a woman with hips he can dig his fingers into; breasts that sway and bounce, breasts he imagines Ulana Khomyuk to have.

*

Sunday is a day as any other. Charkov’s alarm sounds at 4 am and an hour later he sits at his desk. He has never truly understood the strange fascination of sitting at home idle or walking along the Moscow with half of the capital’s population. His are the hours of dawn when everything lays quiet and the world just is about to wake; the moments when the red stone glows like smoldering embers in the first sunrays after a night of heavy rain. These morning strolls are the closest Charkov gets to peace, opening the knot of his restless mind, at least for a while.

At 6 am a knock to his door disrupts the silence. “Enter.”

Without standing up Charkov takes the envelope of the size of a paper with both his hands, wondering about the weight of it but feigns his usual disinterest.

“Your effort is appreciated, Comrade Lyadov.” A curt nod indicates dismissal.

Seldom does curiosity get the better of him. Today it does. He breaks the seal with a paperknife in the shape of a little blade, a gift after two years of exceptional efforts. His eyes fall on some rudimentary drafts of scientific publications first, nothing related to RBMK reactors and therefore entirely irrelevant to his own interests; an excerpt of a year-book, graduation school; some names of men she apparently went out with, ordinary men, most of them scientists just as her.

He flips through the rest of the documents, rather quickly so: abandoned essays, some information about her parents, a bad attempt at poetry – exactly nothing out of the ordinary, a fact he finds utmost surprising.

Ordinary isn’t an attribute he would use to describe Ulana Khomyuk.

There’s something about that women, an air of mystery surpassing the ordinary feeling of strangeness scientists always provoke in him.

Charkov’s first impression about someone is rarely wrong – otherwise, he wouldn’t be sitting in that leather chair on a sunny Sunday morning. Yet regarding her, he apparently is.

Ordinary documents over ordinary documents, not a single one even making for an interesting read. Excitement turns into disappointment, although Charkov would never come close to admitting it. But then, pushing aside yet another draft of scientific work his eyes fall on a crumpled sheet of paper with a photo glued to it and disappointment turns into excitement again.

His eyes go wide and he hastily covers the photo with something less incriminating. He falls back into his chair, trying to compose his thoughts. The paper is greasy at its edges, indicating it was used quite frequently in the past. Unsurprising; only a blind fool would not take advantage of such a possession. A smug smirk of knowledge settles upon his face, saying: _I knew_.

_Untrue._

He scolds himself. Yes, he had suspected to find something compromising, ridiculously idealistic – certainly not that shirtless photos of Ulana Khomyuk exist.

It’s 6:45 am and Charkov’s day is over. The last time he had stopped working before 5 pm had been almost twenty-five years ago. With an incredulous shake of his head, he stands and walks towards the door of his office, opening it. “Ksenia, no disturbances of any kind during the next hour and a half.”

His secretary nods, curtly. It has taken Charkov fifteen years to address her by her first name and even now it doesn’t come easily across his lips.

Her word commands silence and he knows it’s enough, nevertheless he locks the door. _Just in case._ Nothing out of the ordinary, precautions merely since of late too many ignorant and impertinent fools have been employed.

On his way back to his desk he retrieves a pack of cigarettes from a drawer, kept there for important guests since regularly he doesn’t indulge into such a weakness of the mind. But then, there’s nothing ordinary about that day. Charkov lights a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he falls back into the chair, tilting his head backward. Only then does he retrieve the photo and brings it close to his face, daring a closer look.

The reality doesn’t stray much from his fantasies.

Her breasts appear to be the perfect size for his hands, soft just as her hips, not perfectly round but still firm despite the size of them. He’s blinking against the dizzy rush of blood flowing straight into his cock – not that he had not expected or anticipated it would. Nevertheless, the wave of heat it provokes knocks him almost breathless. After all, it has been a while …

He puts the cigarette out and shifts in his chair for the sake of a better range of movement, spreading his legs further. Then, he unbuckles his belt, lifting his shirt and undershirt a little so that the heel of his hand rests against his stomach, softened by age. It’s anticipation that stills his fingers, simply thinking about sucking her nipples is already quite effective. When he reaches down, at last, his cock resting hard and damp against his fingers. The voice, Ulana’s voice, that speaks to in his mind is low and full of promises, as is her smile. 

_The eagerness of youth._

Charkov’s eyes fall shut as he gives his cock a first gentle stroke before he slides his hand up, then licks his fingers for better lubrication, reaching down again. Of some men in the Party it is said that they keep Vaseline in the drawer of their desk; what is also said is that those are the only minutes of the day when their hands aren’t idle. Charkov knows such men, plenty of them – and he despises every single one he has ever met.

There’s no reason to keep his face blank today, and he’s quite certain the disgust he immediately feels mingles with the lust her photo provokes. A blissful sigh tumbles from Charkov’s lips as he forces all of his attention back to her. 

In his fantasy he touches her breasts for a while, loosening and tightening his grip on them, then pinches her nipples, twisting them between thumb and index finger until they are fully hard. The imagination goes straight towards his cock. Yet somehow, he still manages to keep the pace of his hand steady, stroking his erection in an even rhythm. The years of frenzy are long gone by, not that he had ever been prone to indulge in unthoughtful actions in the first place. He presses her breasts to together, kneading them until in his imagination she dips her head back, his hand working in one fluid sequence.

_Damn._

It pushes his imagination towards a very distinct direction. His first instinct is to fight against it, but then he asks himself _why_ – after all it’s not an entirely unpleasant scenario his mind constructs. Laying back, watching her breasts bounce up and down with every raise of her body seems quite befitting for his age; after all, she’s still young and agile, when he is not. He bites back the moan threatening to leave his mouth, and once, twice he succeeds. And then he fails, his stoic calm gone and forgotten. Each stroke edges him close and closer, but he never lets himself tip over the edge, not even when in his fantasy he enters her, wet and willing. Such is perhaps the gift of age; the combination of knowledge and persistence.

Then, he wonders what it would be like if he urges her to fuck him hard and fast; about the slick and wet sounds sliding in and out of her; their moans mingling. By now there’s certainly color in his cheeks, the heat spreading down his neck, his chest, provoked by the way he fucks his hand, in the same rhythm as he dreams of her riding him.

Charkov almost falls, but recovers. In his fantasy he sits upright now, taking one of her nipples into his mouth as she still rides him as best she can with his arms tightly wrapped around her.

The photo has long fallen out of his hand, forgotten, now lying on his desk amidst all the other documents. It lacks the vibrancy his imagination projects to her; the sound of her voice, hoarse and ecstatic, the color of her glowing skin; the smell of her perfume he had caught that fateful day. His chest rises and falls with each labored breath, and with each fisting move, cock now slick with spit and pre-come, his body shudders until there’s no turning back. He could feel her nails scratch along his back, and in response, he marks her throat with his mouth, his own moans mingling with her breathless incoherencies, urging him to follow her into bliss. The imagination of Charkov’s mind blends with reality and, although he tries to stifle the obscene sounds, tries to keep his vision from blurring, her face dissolves behind his closed eyes as warmth spills across his hand.

Despite his failure, a smile – broad and honest – forms upon his face.

*

 _Today is indeed no ordinary day_ , Charkov thinks, walking along the Moscow on a sunny Sunday afternoon together with at least a hundred others – smiling.

And whenever his fingers brush against the photo in the pocket of his coat, his smile grows a little wider.

_Can you imagine?_

*

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of this story, aka the photo, is to be blamed entirely on the shirtless photo of Emily Watson from another movie that was shared in the discord server a few days ago. Whoever it shared - BLESS.


End file.
